


belladonna & bloodshed (or: how to find love in war)

by anjalikaastras



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: F/F, M/M, cameos by some of the other cast i guess, dimitri and claude make like one appearance and it's not even dialogue, this was a christmas fic dsjfsdg
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-28
Updated: 2019-12-28
Packaged: 2021-02-26 07:48:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,191
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22000012
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anjalikaastras/pseuds/anjalikaastras
Summary: Crimson Flowers route Edeleth & Ferdibert.On a field of lush green grass, Byleth met a crimson girl.In the shadows of the night, Hubert met a man who blazed like the sun.
Relationships: Edelgard von Hresvelg/My Unit | Byleth, Ferdinand von Aegir/Hubert von Vestra
Comments: 6
Kudos: 81





	belladonna & bloodshed (or: how to find love in war)

**Author's Note:**

> a fic written for a friend's christmas present. hope it doesn't disappoint...i'm still really new to fire emblem.
> 
> constructive criticism is appreciated !!

_ The belladonna flower is a type of flower containing deadly nightshade poison — symptoms include loss of balance, rashes, staggering, blurred vision, headaches. Upon consumption, death usually arrives in an instant. _

Flowers are nothing but simple facets of nature, Hubert will sneer if asked for his favourite. There is no relevant part they play in his life, for they are fragile ways of expression. Non-poisonous ones — well, about as useful in the sort of life he leads as bringing one’s indignation alone to fight a war. Poisonous ones — helpful if any dared to stand in Lady Edelgard’s way with not swords but with words. She is right and if the rest of the world says otherwise, then they are wrong. He had decided that from the moment he’d seen her, young, brown-haired, full of dreams and wishes.

But if wishes were fishes, then no one would ever starve — and Lady Edelgard is bone-thin.

_ The belladonna flower represents, in the language of flora: ancient magical lore, bewitching, beguiling. _

When he first meets her, he immediately thinks: Lady Edelgard is someone who carries herself with the air of a hardy bloom. Rosy cheeks and hair like snow might convey a fragile impression to anyone else, but on Lady Edelgard — they are like the heralding of a snowstorm. A crimson flower in the midst of silver snow.

She is a wildflower, Ferdinand decides then: she is something men would walk continents for a glimpse of. Rare, difficult to find, impossible to forget — like fire locked in a cage of silver snow. Hardy and strong and standing against the verdant wind, resplendent in the light of the azure moon. One who bends, but does not break.

She carries herself with an air of  _ knowing _ . Ferdinand has heard whispers in the dark of the  _ things _ those monsters within the shadows did to the Emperor’s children — Crests and experiments and whatnot, unspeakable things that, if spoken, would rot the tongues of those not black of heart. And she undoubtedly knows her father was — and still is — a political puppet for his own former vassals.

He is young — young enough that he barely reaches his father’s chest, but not young enough to be blind and ignorant — and  _ blissful _ — to the truths of the world. 

Duke Aegir’s coup has sullied the von Aegir name, and so, he resolves with a heart that can still believe in dreams of dynamic chivalry — he is Ferdinand von Aegir, and he will bring the honour his father dragged into the dust back to his name. He will restore the glory his father discarded.

It is strange, in a tragic way, how father and son can both see the future so differently.

* * *

Their days in the Academy are not what Byleth would call particularly normal — well, as normal as a military monastery set up to school children in the ways of warfare and nobility can be. But in time, cracks show up, and the hope some held that maybe, just maybe, these future leaders could come to extend olive branches instead of exchange blows extinguish.

If she had to say — it begins with a girl, whose muscled body is strong and stalwart, shouldering an axe that glints in the sunlight. It begins with a girl, who becomes an emperor wreathed in flames — and it ends with a battlefield that was once emerald grass and ash-grey stone, but is now a thousand miles of crimson and the pink of exposed organs.

* * *

It has been five years after the fateful assault on the monastery where those of Garreg Mach once studied. Five years spent in an empire of daggers behind every corner, strengthening defensive instincts their teacher had tried so hard to encourage them to discard. There is need for a purge, a purge to cleanse the halls of the fattened nobility that have never known what it is like to cut their teeth on steel while trying ever so hard to survive, a need to set aflame these halls to remake them in sacred hope.

Nameless lucky nobles will offer meaningless, insincere condolences:  _ Marquis — no,  _ Count _ Vestra, how unlucky, a meal of bad meat, yes, we’re very sorry, must be hard on the family. _

Ferdinand is the one who sits by Hubert in another part of the castle and offers nothing but a hand and a look of understanding. Ferdinand — whose father will be a spot of dirt on his family history as well — knows better than anyone what it feels like to have a forebear one completely disagrees with — and yet, it is not Ferdinand who announces his family name like a curse.

If the price for the reality of Lady Edelgard’s bright future,  _ their _ bright future, is the scarlet blood of their fathers, then by the Goddess herself, Hubert will pay it all.

* * *

“Our little break times will come to an end soon, it seems,” Hubert says. But he does not make to move from his chair, still gazing down at the cooling cup of tea in front of him. “A pity. I have much enjoyed this time spent with you. Even this,” a gesture to the floral drink in front of him, “is palatable in your presence.”

“There’s no feast in the world that won’t come to an end.” Unspoken, shared knowledge hovers between them — they know, both of the soon-to-come assault on the monastery they now call home. Bonds will undoubtedly shatter, and it will most certainly hurt, but they have both cast their lot with the new Emperor. War is not a time for regrets.

It is that which drives his next statement. He doesn’t want to shy away from a rose for fear of being pricked by its thorns, and die never having known the gentleness of its petals. “But I will never leave your side.”

His eyes avert hastily, but not fast enough to miss the layer of pink that dusts his drinking companion’s cheeks. Hubert recovers from it fast enough, coughing to hide the stutter in his breaths.

“Is that so ? Had I two lives to give, Ferdinand...I would give the other to you.”

A bitter feeling rises in the pit of his stomach and worms its way into his mouth, blanking his mind to a point where he almost does not hear Hubert’s next words. His companion’s smile is wickedly sharp, but beyond the playful malice, there is nothing but something he’d call  _ warmth _ .

“You’ll have to make do with half of this one.”

In Hubert’s usual cryptic way — this is not a direct admission of anything, but it gives rise to a feeling Ferdinand can only call  _ hope _ .

* * *

“Are you ready ?” It is a cursory statement. Edelgard’s eyes flit over to her fellow soldiers, her  _ friends _ , her professor.

A resounding battlecry goes up, and she nods. _Forward to the monastery. We will take back this land from the goddess herself, if we must !_

The crown of Adrestia is heavy on her head, but with Byleth at her side and her friends behind her, Edelgard could lift the weight of the world.

Alas, that night, Edelgard learns — there is one weight humans were never meant to lift alone, even if she tries: the weight of loss.

_ How long do you intend to sleep ? _

An annoyed voice pierces unconsciousness’ veil, high-pitched and girlish. It is so painfully familiar that Byleth’s eyes snap open, and for a moment, she thinks she can see the visage of a girl ( _ not a goddess, but someone who did not even know her own name _ ) with green hair.

Like all dreams do, it vanishes, but this time, it holds long enough for it to dissolve into Edelgard’s face, Edelgard’s smile, Edelgard’s hands wrapped warm around her torso.

_ My students are waiting for me, _ she’d murmured, half dazed.  _ I can’t let them down. _

_ We never lost faith. The Black Eagles Strike Force is waiting for you. _

* * *

There is much rejoicing the day the Professor returns. Hubert and Ferdinand are quietly overjoyed, themselves, but they remind each other soon enough of the responsibilities they must attend to to aid the war effort, and so they quietly excuse themselves to take care of paperwork. The festivities do not miss them: proof enough of the light Byleth brought to their lives, and of the fire she reignited in them by returning.

Hubert thinks, watching his companion go, in words the Hubert of a few years ago might have dubbed  _ sappy _ or  _ disgustingly saccharine _ . He thinks: Ferdinand is the sort of man anyone could fall for, and surely, he will find his sun, so Hubert will not be the Icarus that dared to soar towards him (like the pegasus knight he dreamed of being), will not be the Icarus whose wax wings were scorched by the heavens’ rejection and who plunged into a cold, forlorn sea.

For if Ferdinand is the sun, lucent and all-encompassing in its warmth, then Hubert is the moon, which absorbs its warmth yet emits none of its own.

_ Perhaps that is how things are meant to be, and why, for Hubert, the night is cold. _

* * *

_ (There was a woman who had taught three people: a leader, a king, and a heiress. The king blamed a mysterious emperor for his father’s downfall, and swore revenge, but he was yet young, and yet filled with chivalric pride. But aside from that, the woman’s teaching days passed in relative peace. Until one day, the heiress revealed that she was, in fact, not only the king’s childhood friend, but also the emperor. _

_ The woman saw it, and knew she might be making a mistake, but she could not forget the heiress’ bright eyes and wishful future. _

_ When the time came for war, the emperor held out one hand, wordless. A single heavy question hung like Damocles’ sword between them.) _

Once, Ferdinand had told her:  _ you do not seem very ambitious. _ She’d agreed — to speak truthfully, the only stakes she held in this war were those of Edelgard’s. 

“I mean it, Edelgard.” She swallows. “If your dream is to reform all of Fodlan, then...my dream is only you.”

Edelgard blinks at first, seeming confused, uncertain. Byleth feels like her heart is plummeting into an abyss, and her fists unconsciously clench, nails digging into palms to distract from the pain that begins to blossom in her heart. But then the von Hresvelg  _ smiles _ , and now the former professor’s stomach is filled with butterflies.

“What a relief,” she murmurs, looking shyly back into Byleth’s eyes. Something falls away around the Adrestian Emperor — no longer does the path around her feel like a narrow, single-plank bridge ; no longer do shadows of loneliness seem to chase her with every step.

She looks outwards, beyond Byleth, and the Professor knows what she envisions: a bloodied path paved with good intentions, noble ideals, and the will to bear as much sin as needed to carve the rest of it out. 

_ (and the woman took the emperor’s hand, and walked with her to Hell.) _

“ _ You are the one I want to walk this road with. _ ”

* * *

The war does not go smoothly. It never does. Not when every last Eagle meets a foe on the battlefield that once, could have been a friend. Byleth tried her best before the war, tried to bring them all to one side — but ultimately, most are more loyal to the Blaiddyd or Riegan houses than they could be to a woman whose allies had razed Remire.

It is like Byleth’s reappearance has brought forth some untapped well of power, something that shatters the stalemate between Leicester, the Empire and the Kingdom, and it is Edelgard who conquers.

Somehow, it is not Claude or Dimitri that hurt Byleth’s heart the most — it is not their piercing gazes as they ask her:  _ why would you choose this path ? _ It is, instead — Hilda’s wink, her careless proclamation of “it’s fine, these things happen in war” and her cheery grin even while swinging her axe that all hide the sorrow of her dear teacher choosing to join opposing ranks; Dedue’s almost emotionless change of views: from viewing Byleth as one worthy of respect to nothing more than an enemy to be cut down.

And something inside her chest screams — a wail long and loud, a piercing sound that Byleth knows will ring in the darkest corners of her mind for as long as she lives _ —  _ the instant she sees Edelgard parry Hilda’s axe blow in time for one of Hubert’s hexes to catch her square over the heart; in the moment that the Crest Beast collapses and the last sparks of anything that could have been Dedue go dormant inside its eyes.

Then it is all over, and suddenly there is a hole in her chest that nothing can fill.

They say that when you teach, a piece of your soul is imparted onto each student who holds your lessons near to them forever. And it is so that when she is charged by men and women who hold their weapons just as she taught them to,  _ firm grip, centre of gravity in mind _ , it is only duty to the Empire that keep her arms steady, the Creator’s Sword held in defiance of their dreams.

Fortuna’s wheel turns and turns, careless of the hopes it grinds to dust beneath in its ceaseless repetition.

Only when it is all over, only when Nemesis is finished, does she allow herself to collapse into Edelgard’s arms, hug her, and  _ sob _ .

* * *

The castle parapet opens into an expanse of purple-and-pink dusted sky. 

Sunset is magnificent, doubly so when layered with knowledge of victory. Today, Ferdinand, for the first time, looks out over a united Fodlan.

And so does the person next to him.

“I’d have thought you enjoyed parties more.” 

“Belladonna,” Ferdinand elaborates, apropos of the bouquet of flowers he’s decided to pass over to Hubert. “You said you liked it.”

  
  
“It’s poisonous, but beautiful.” He has to stop himself from saying something unbearably sappy like  _ reminds me of you _ .

...On second thought, that also sounds like an insult.

“I do.” Hubert examines the flowers in a glove thick enough not to worry about possible toxins seeping into skin. Colour rushes into his face, and yet again, Ferdinand gets to savour that blush. “Thank you.”

Silence falls between them for a few moments, before Hubert’s voice breaks it.

“I...have something I wish to ask of you, as a matter of fact.” Hubert clears his throat and sets the belladonna down carefully next to him. One hand reaches into his pocket. “...Ah, I had rehearsed a preamble for this, but it vanishes like shadows into the sun. Nevertheless...Ferdinand von Aegir, I...have love for you, and I have had these...feelings for a long time.”

One knee touches the floor as a ring is proffered, resting on the palm of a white glove.

“And I...would like to ask you to marry me.”

_ “Marry me.” _

The sunset already casts the world in a rosy hue, but right now, Ferdinand thinks it could be midnight and he’d see things the same. He grabs Hubert’s hand, holds on before the other man can think to retract his words, and breathes, more sure of this than anything else he’s ever done. If Hubert is the moon, rising wan and pale and lonely amidst the shadows, then Ferdinand will be his stars, twinkling alongside him.

_ The moon needs the sun, but the sun does not need the moon ? _

_ False. _

_ Without the moon, it would be lonely for the sun to stand amidst the million stars. After all, sometimes, we need a reflection, a mirror to ignite with our own ardent blaze, a bone-white celestial body to keep us company in the night. _

_ Be the moon that shines gently in the night, in my place — and I will be the sun that blazes for you alone. _

“Yes.”

* * *

Ferdinand and Hubert marry ten months after it all. It is a welcome benediction, a soothing balm. The Black Eagles all attend, cheering dutifully.

The bouquet is tossed by Dorothea, more out of well-wishes to the rest of the Eagles than anything (this is healing, after the end of a war). It lands squarely in Edelgard’s lap, and while Ferdinand teases her later by way of very meaningful glances to Byleth, well —

— gears start turning.

On a new moon, she makes her move.

“My professor — no,  _ Byleth _ ,” Edelgard breathes, and it is so strange, to begin whispering these words to someone you’ve known ever since you were but a student, but the pure  _ love _ welling up in her chest will have no other outlet. “We have forayed through countless battlefields together. You have had my back all this while, and I…”

The words are sweet like honey but just as sticky, and she finds them caught in her throat, burning with caustic fears of rejection, but still, she soldiers on. An emperor cannot afford to be fearful.

“...I fell in love with you. Byleth…”

She kneels.

In her hand is a velvet box, and a ring forged from the best materials in all Adrestia. The ring itself is simple — a steel band, but there is a proud golden eagle flaring its wings twined around it, beak open in a soundless cry of defiance. The eagle’s eye is an inlaid ruby.

“Even before Gronder — when you were my professor — you chose my house, my Black Eagles. Now…”  _ and here comes the part she’d fretted over for so long, fearing how cheesy it might sound _ , “...if I may be selfish enough, will you choose  _ me _ ?”

  
  


The wedding is beautiful. Ferdinand definitely  _ did not _ cry, and Hubert most  _ certainly _ shed _ not a single tear _ when “you may kiss the bride” rang through the church louder than any bell. It is beautiful in the ways that drive her mind into a haze of white bliss.

On a field soaked in blood, they marry, and each step covers every inch of the ground in white lily petals.

It will never quite be like beauty born from ashes, but it is good enough, and they'll just have to take it.

* * *

There is a beautiful, white dress between her hands (well, its zip, at least), and its wearer’s flesh is delicate snow under her touch. 

Edelgard takes her time with it, thinking of how peace is so unlike the dove-alabaster colors stories use to lie to children with. Thinking of how her peace is bloodstained, muddy, and dirtied with the dying gasps of men who might have been her friends in an age different from now, but it is still _hers._ _Her_ peace. She had gotten by on crumbs of patience — now, now, she can feast on justice’s reward.

Well, she and the Black Eagles.

It has been a year after they married, and almost two years after the great war.

“Edelgard”, Byleth says, cutting into her thoughts rather abruptly. “Pull  _ up _ , not down.”

The Adrestian Emperor, Bearer of the Crest of Flames, Hresvelg’s Honoured Heir, wielder of an axe that they say could split the heavens, coughs like a child caught with their hand in the cookie jar.

“Right.”

  
  



End file.
